Hello! Call me The Muse or Muse! My pronouns are she/her. I am bisexual, and love all lgbtqia+, my favorite band is Queen. I use Witchcraft, I am open to share because my own beliefs are complex!
I reblog and I love writing and posting fanfic! Do not put my work in AI generators, just request something.
I am allergic to racism, please respect my allergy.
I sometimes talk about issues that bother me politically in the hopes to spread awareness.
Read rules before requesting, even if I don't say anything, I can tell when you don't. I am always adding new fandom's so make sure to check.
Hello! Thank you so much for joining me on my writing journey! (I update my Masterlist every time I post a fic of some kind, except match ups as those are personal). Check guidelines before requesting.
Muse's favorite fic list is here
Tolkien badly explained by a queer that loves middle earth master list (you can request something specific for me to talk about)
my tags specific to me are:
muse writes fanfic
muse fucks around with a fandom
muse's monthly character
Tolkien badly explained by a queer that loves middle earth
For best results, go to latest instead of most popular because latest shows everything I have written.
Feel free to ask for something! But please look at my general guidelines below the cut.
Feel free to like, reblog and comment on my work! Do not put it in an Ai generator. I don't care if you stalk my blog, I probably won't notice if you like everything.
My rules:
Requests go in my ask box labeled "asks & requests"
Writing takes time and depending on how busy I am will depend on how quickly it gets written, please be patient
All of my request work is x reader
I'll do head canons/imagines/oneshots/match ups/custom incorrect quotes/secret option and please feel free to request
What I won't write/or a grey area:
I do not write requests with anything including yandere, stalker, s*xual assault or involving characters unaliving thyselves.
Pregnancy is also off the table for requests, I may include it in a fic but it is not requestable.
Almost anything else I will do my best to write! Platonic, or romantic, smut(which is only female cause that's what I know), fluff, and angst but it will always have a happy ending
General guidelines for requesting:
For match ups, just send me the fandom from my list and a little bit about yourself! I do not need star signs or lettered personality types. Rules for matchups below in a smaller font.
I need a basic description of your physical features (hair color and eye color), some about your personality and hobbies and whether you want a male or female character!
You can request more than one fandom with the understanding the more you request the less head canons you might get but I will do as many as are on my list.
If you want a specific character, just request a story, it's much easier and your feelings won't be hurt if I have a differing opinion.
If there is a specific species or something that you don't want a character from (ex: Hobbits, Dwarves, Jedi), please tell me why. Multiple times someone has said this when I think they would go really well with someone like this.
Most importantly, I don't need four paragraphs, you can give me as much information as your comfortable but no zodiacs, letter personality types, stuff like that, I do not use it, it wasted your time.
For imagines and one shots send me a character or two and a general plot or just if you want fluff or something else.
For headcanons and preferences send in some characters, and what you would like headcanons/preferences for.
Doesn't matter your gender/sexuality, I will try and do gender neutral readers. I can definitely do female reader and I would be willing to try and write a male reader!
My fandoms are:
To Wong Fu, thanks for everything, Julie Newmar
The Lord of the rings/The Hobbit
Boondock saints
Tombstone 1993
Troy (2004)
Star wars (the Bad Batch, the Mandalorien, and movies 4 to 6)
Night at the Museum (and Night at the museum: Battle of the Smithsonian)
the 13th warrior (1999)
Pride and Prejudice (1995)
Doctor who
pirates of the Caribbean
some Disney
Gladiator
The adventures of Robin Hood (1938)
Vikings
Narnia
Granada Sherlock Holmes (the Jeremy Brett one)
BBC Sherlock Holmes
Supernatural (still watching)
Texas chainsaw massacre iii (Tex romantic, Bubba and the little girl platonic)
Friday the 13th (romantically: Clay Miller, Nick Rogers, Tina Shepard and more can be inquired about. Jason himself is only platonic)
Law & Order: Special Victims Unit
My longer stories which are on my quotev account:
Night at the museum collection: Iris's story-Iris Daley, a wrestler, loves her Dad's new job and her new friends, especially the adventures. And of course the hot mummy at the museum certainly helps.
Life is like a box of chocolates- A Forrest Gump fic. What if Forrest had another friend? His younger sister, Cecelia Rose, would always be his friend. Throughout their childhood, she helped him with homework, to adult hood, when she helped him with his shrimp business. This book does deal with sensitive topics.
The day she turned seventeen...and the aftermath- A Star Wars fic. Rhea is basically a genius. Half Arkanian, she has enough brains to take down the empire. Which is the very same reason they want her dead. After a life full of pain and loss, this time losing the one place she feels she belongs in this world, she cracks her knuckles and gets to work doing what she can to survive.
But, will she thrive?
Daughter of Warriors- A Hobbit and Lord of the rings fic aka my pride and joy. Amira is a daughter, sister, student, ranger, warrior, and friend. Follow her as she learns and grows to embody all the roles that life, and sometimes Gandalf, have cast her for.
Dream on- In the great state of Kansas, three different children were born, in three different years, in three different months. Dean was borth January 24th, 1979. Sam was born May 2nd, 1983. They were brothers. In October, 1991, on the 31st, Kismet was born. 14 years later, brought to you by fate and the world screwing people over, this story happened...
Masterlist:
Tombstone 1993
Headcanons for dancing with Tombstone (1993) characters...Doc Holliday, Wyatt Earp, Virgil Earp, Morgan Earp, Johnny Ringo, Curly Bill, Kate, Josie, Florentino Fabian, Billy Breckinridge
Headcanons for romantic relationships with Tombstone men
Headcanons for asking Tombstone men if you can ride their face
Fancy- potential Wyatt, doc, or Johnny x f!reader
Headcanons for the men of Tombstone (1993) falling in love with a married reader...Doc Holliday, Wyatt Earp, Virgil Earp, and Johnny Ringo
Headcanons for your first time with Tombstone (1993) men...Doc Holliday, Wyatt Earp, Virgil Earp, and Johnny Ringo
Wyatt Earp
Fancy- (Wyatt Earp's ending)
The Woman who was Wronged
Doc Holliday
Fancy- (Doc Holliday's ending)
Platonic headcanons with Doc Holliday (gn!reader)
Imagine Doc Holliday kissing you under the mistletoe... (Part of monthly character)
He left without words- Doc Holliday x Fem!reader
Johnny Ringo
Fancy-(Ringo's ending)
Protected by the devil-platonically-Johnny with his niece (platonic, niece is unnamed and looks like him, self indulgent)
The Cowboy and the Doctor-will be a double ending story
Troy (2004)/the Iliad cause I like both
Incorrect Troy 2004 quotes
Incorrect Troy 2004 quotes 2
Incorrect Troy 2004 quotes 3
Incorrect Troy 2004 quotes 4
Modern au! Men of Troy (2004) with Spanish speaking gn!reader
Men of Troy (2004) doing the trend to Rhianna’s song breaking dishes except in ancient Greece
Headcanons for asking the man of troy if you can ride their face
Headcanons for cuddling with the men of Troy (2004)
The Men of Troy (2004) reacting to the reader being groped unwantedly by a strange man
Headcanons for coming out to the characters Troy (2004) (LGBTQIA+ oriented)
Headcanons for waking up with the men of Troy (2004) gn!reader
Headcanons for the character of Troy (2004) finding out you are a demigod
Soldier. Poet. King. - a song fic with endings for Achilles ending Hector ending Odysseus ending
Girl's just wanna have fun-Achilles x Y/n and Hector x Muse
Achilles:
A quiet moment- Achilles x F!reader
Chance meeting- Achilles x F!reader
Sea shells by the sea shore- Achilles x gn!reader
the prequel- Captive hearts (told from Achilles pov)
the main story- Comfort in your arms- Achilles x F!reader
part two- Haunted past. New beginnings.
You for you (Achilles edition)- Achilles x F!reader
Healing care- Achilles x F!reader
Lament of friends- Achilles x sibling!gn!reader, after Patroclus dies, his best friend is left hurt and tired of the constant war. (Angst)
Headcanons for Achilles as gn!readers older brother
Headcanons for a romantic relationship with Achilles with gn!reader
Imagine giving Achilles a back rub as he talks shit about Agamemnon...
Imagine Achilles comforting you when he finds you crying...
Imagine dancing with Achilles in your shared tent... (Part of monthly characters)
Hector:
Wedding dance- Hector x f!reader
Blood in the water- Hector x f!reader. angst with happy ending
A husband's return home- Hector x f!reader, fluffy smut
Headcanons for Hector as a girl dad with daughter!reader
Headcanons for a romantic relationship with Hector with gn!reader
Imagine Hector comforting you after he finds you crying...
Odysseus:
Headcanons for a romantic relationship with Odysseus with gn!reader
Hands of healing Odysseus x reader fic that was requested
Patroclus:
Imagine taking care of Patroclus after he gets cut sparing with Achilles...
Briseis:
You for you (Briseis edition)
Star wars:
The originals:
Leia:
Imagine Leia braiding your hair...(Part of monthly characters)
The Bad Batch:
Wrecker:
Imagine Wrecker trying to teach gn!reader to punch but.....
Disney:
Pixie hallow (4 to 6 fairys per request please for headcanons or preferances)
Headcanons for Tinkerbell, Silvermist, Fawn and Vidia with a platonic! female!human!reader who plays the Ocarina
Frozen:
Headcanons for Elsa and Anna having an adopted younger sibling (gn!reader)
Cinderella:
Headcanons for what if the blue fairy visited Cinderella instead of the fairy godmother
Sleeping beauty:
Headcanons for being Aurora's adopted younger sibling
Hercules:
Kiss the girl- Hercules x F!reader
Wish:
Starboy:
Headcanons for Starboy as a partner
Lord of the rings:
Imagine the fellowship taking care of you while your sick...
Imagine your older brothers, Boromir and Faramir, comforting you after a nightmare...
Imagine your brothers. Faramir and Boromir, comforting you...
Headcanons for being Boromir and Faramir's younger sister...
Headcanons for Boromir and Faramir with a younger sister...
The legacy of a Captain-reader Boromir's daughter, this features most of the rest of the fellowship.
Aragorn:
Imagine Aragorn listening to your info dump about your current hyper focus and he's just happy you trust him enough to do so…
BBC Sherlock:
Imagine spending Christmas with your older brother John and his friend Sherlock.....
X-men:
Imagine wrapping Christmas presents with Professor X
Imagine Professor X and Logan taking you to a Christmas market
To Wong Foo, thanks for everything! Julie Newmar:
Imagine Miss Vida comforting you after a breakup...(Part of monthly characters)
Gladiator 2000:
The Spanish Vestal-oc is Maximus's daughter, angst, platonic, NO ROMANCE. Warnings: attempted sa, violence, death...and now we have the prequal: Daughter of Maximus
Narnia:
Imagine cuddling with Caspian... (part of monthly characters)
Enola Holmes:
Sherlock:
Imagine Sherlock Holmes dancing with you at a ball… (part of monthly characters)
Boondock saints:
Headcanons for being Connor and Murphy's younger brother...
Murphy:
Imagine Murphy telling you not to talk badly about yourself...(part of monthly characters
Headcanons for dating Murphy MacManus...
They'll curse the day they shed your blood-Murphy x gn!reader
Connor:
Headcanons for a relationship with Conner McManus...male!reader
Pirates of the Caribbean
Jack Sparrow:
The wild heart of the sea-jack x f!reader
Granada's Sherlock Holmes shows:
Sherlock:
Headcanon's for being the one to accompany Sherlock on cases when John can't...
Texas Chainsaw Massacre:
Tex Sawyer:
Period headcanons with Tex Sawyer as your boyfriend...
The 13th Warrior (1999)
Headcanons for the men of the 13th warrior (1999) reuniting with their wives...
Headcanons for your wedding night with the men of the 13th warrior (1999)...
the fact that ai companies are buying is proof rare and old books through middlemen to avoid more bad PR, only to scan them to train they're language models and destroying them.
This includes rare and out of print books that could possibly disappear from shelves because of AI. This disgusts me and makes me feel so hopeless for the future of the world.
What kind of world are the generations before me handing me...what the fuck...why are they still in control...why are people letting this happen...please people this is the time to fight back...
Please reblog so these petitions reach more people...
btw, my friends on ao3
BAN AI from AO3
here is a general anti ai petition:
Demand a Complete Ban on All Forms of Artificial Intelligence, Excluding CPU in Games
Sources below:
AI companies are buying books in bulk to create AI training datasets, and destroying them in the process. Booksellers and authors are natura
Its pitch is simple: older books offer cleaner data. "The world's best AI training data is sitting on a shelf," the company says on its webs
Now people are claiming that Troy 2004 is a far superior adaptation to Christopher Nolan's Odyssey.
Troy. A film with no gods, where Patroclus is far younger than Achilles, Menelaus dies, Agammenon dies before he returns home, and Paris not only lives but gets to escape with Helen while Troy is sacked.
I think everyone forgets that movie opinions are very subjective.
For me personally, Troy isn't a silly movie but infact one I enjoy tremendously as a version of one of my favorite stories.
And also, considering the fact that Troy 2004 has been a consistantly hated on movie for multiple reasons reasons, especially on Tumblr, it's probably more people expressing there opinion and thinking that one movie is better then the other. Which is exactly what you are doing 🙃
So finished the Odyssey. I actually quite liked it. The Odyssey is by no means an easy story to adapt, but I found it very well done.
That's great! I'm so glad for you 💕
Maybe I will search it online and see for myself, at this point i feel like i gotta see it only because it sounds quite fun to chat with all my troytuals about it.
- they kept Menelaus as a shitty husband who hates his wife
- they cut the "nobody" scene
- they had 1 god(dess) in the whole movie.
...
In my opinion it's quite like troy 2004, and Wuthering Heights 2026, some people are absolutely going to despise it for how far it drifts from the original story, other people are going to enjoy it for it's acting, costume, and overall vibe, and some people are just going to love it regardless
All the folks hating on Argentina for losing to the world cup, lemme know so I can block you.
Cause some of you are being super racist and problematic.
The rest of you are talking about corruption and I know some of y'all are Americans and I would like you take a good hard look at our country and realize that our government is full of corrupt people too.
I have now fully reached a point in my life where I would love to meet the actors in my favorite shows and movies but I'm also terrified that I'll say something and be that weird fan.
Like I want to tell Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki that i really appreciate them portraying Dean and Sam in a way that the characters sorta became like the older brothers I always wanted, BUT I DON'T WANT TO BE WEIRD!
And I would love to tell Sean Austin and Ian McKellen that they say they deliver some of their lines in lord of the rings are what I try and think about when I'm struggling and it makes me feel better BUT I DON'T WANT TO MAKE THEM UNCOMFORTABLE!
It all goes back to, I don't feel cool enough to know them and I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable or take up space and I live in fear of doing that.
A fun fact I absolutely LOVE about Viggo Mortensen is that he convinced The Lord of the Rings costume team to make the outfit Aragorn wears at the Battle of the Black Gate red and blue: the colors of San Lorenzo de Almagro, the Argentine football club he supports.
Here’s the interview where Viggo confirms it
It’s in Spanish, with an Argentine accent, obviously.
All the folks hating on Argentina for losing to the world cup, lemme know so I can block you.
Cause some of you are being super racist and problematic.
The rest of you are talking about corruption and I know some of y'all are Americans and I would like you take a good hard look at our country and realize that our government is full of corrupt people too.
✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦
✦summary: ben starts acting rather strange. being quiet. hitting on you less. making sure you eat. you're worried, even though he doesn't want you to be. you never could've guessed the reason why.✦
✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred), light angst, softer!ben in a way (as soft as he can get lmao), canon divergance, pining, plot to earn the smut (panty stealing/kink, posessiveness, teasing, messy sex, size kink, dry humping, sex pollen, stripping, body worship, dom!Ben, blowjobs, finger sucking, masturbation, fingering, begging, nipple play, manhandling, oral f!reciving, pussy spanking, overstimulation, praise and degredation kink, clit abuse, creampie, monster dick ben, rough sex, this man is a sex god, just so many orgasms, dumbification, dacryphilia, hyperspermia, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 10.3k✦
✦author's note: request! i dare to ask the question. can this man get hornier✦
Ben is being quiet. It’s incredibly worrying.
You’d been waiting for them to get back from the mission on the couch, and he’d stormed into the room like the world outside was on fire. You’d sat up with wide eyes, and he’d gone perfectly still. His face had been red, his eyes blown out, his attention almost burning through you.
“Ben?” You’d whispered, unsure if you should be running to him, or as far away as you could get. “Are you- Is there something wrong-“
He’d lurched back, blinking wildly. You’d sat up on your knees, ready to reach for him, and he’d taken a staggered step back.
“Ben-“
He’d marched into the meeting room like something was dragging him there. You’d sat on the couch for another minute, staring blankly after him until the rest of the team came up.
You sat next to him for the debrief. You always sat next to him, no matter how you protested. It didn’t matter how many times you asked not to play babysitter, you were the best at it.
It was a low bar. You just had to not egg him on like Butcher, or try to give him a free, unlicensed therapy session like Hughie. You just sat there, and glowered while he grinned, and everyone said you had Soldier Boy on a leash.
“What’s wrong with you,” you hiss during the meeting, and Ben shoots you a sideways glare.
He still doesn’t say anything. When you poke his arm, he recoils, flinching as if he’d been shot.
That’s what makes you freeze.
Ben doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t wince, and he doesn’t whine or bitch or moan. You’ve seen a rocket launcher slam into his chest, and he’d roared like an animal before throwing the thing back at the shooter. You’ve poked and slapped him almost every day for the past year. He’s only ever looked down at you with raised brows and a smirk, like you were a misbehaving bunny trying to eat his socks.
But this time, his eyes are black, and his brow is knit. There’s a tension in his jaw that makes your breath hitch, and his nostrils flare. The table whines under his grip. You’re rooted to your chair, unable to rip your gaze away. He grunts your name, low and rough, and you’re suddenly all too aware of it. The space between your bodies. Your knees aren’t pressed together under the table. His fingers aren’t grazing your arm every few moments, like they have every single day since Butcher tossed you into his den and told you to keep the old man from blowin’ something up.
There’s a heat radiating from his body that makes your head spin. It’s not the radiation or the bomb. His eyes aren’t empty and there’s no glow coming from his chest.
Ben runs warm. You’re more aware of it than he’s ever going to get to know. Ben’s always made of the kind of heat that pools between your thighs and makes your heart skip, even when you’re shoving his chest and flipping him off.
But this.
This feels like a fever.
Soldier Boy isn’t supposed to be able to get a fucking fever.
You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong again. Ben looks away, and leans back in his chair. His body is angled away from yours. Your feet bump, and he jerks away with a low, almost feral sound. You swallow, a bile rising from the back of your throat. He’s never passed up a chance to touch you.
Through the entire debrief, there wasn’t one word. He grunted in response to questions. Not an insult or crude joke, not a brag or boast about how much they’d needed him, not even an attempt to get into your pants. He’d sat, stiff and silent, then left the moment Butcher waved for everyone to fuck off.
You watch him go, your hands clasped under the table, worrying at the cuffs of your sleeves. You’re not worried about him. You don’t get worried about him. He’s an old ass with a pretty face, who spends more time trying to make you spread your legs than listening to plans for missions. But there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, and it feels like a ship, rocking back and forth in a storm.
“Butcher?” You call, still watching the door Ben vanished through.
Butcher turns back to the table with a groan, glaring at you in your chair. “Fuckin’- I was about to go get Waffle House, love, so if you’ll excuse me-“
“What happened?”
“What-“ Butcher cuts himself off, running a hand down his face. “You mean on that mission Ijust fuckin’ debriefed-“
“No, I mean with Soldier Boy-“
“Ah, your sweet lil Ben-“
“No- I mean- He’s not-“ You shake your head. “Butcher, I’m fucking serious, he’s being- He was quiet.”
Butcher shrugs. “So? Far as I can see, he’s learnin’ how to be a good boy.”
“But he’s not,” you say flatly. “He’s not a good boy, and- You fucking know that.”
“Maybe. But I don’t go ‘round lookin’ for holes in good things, Love-“
“Oh, fuck off, that’s all you do-“
“Well, I’m a changed man.” Butcher gives you a lazy grin. “You got anything else for me? Gonna whine about grandpa actin’ too polite?”
You narrow your eye, holding Butcher’s stare. His tone is indifferent. His posture is bored. “You know I’m right about this,” you say, cold and quiet. “Don’t try and- And fucking dance around this. Ben’s acting weird, and-“
“Ben,” Butcher coos, and you snap your mouth shut. “Ain’t that sweet-“
“Butcher, I swear to fucking God-“
“What? You’re gonna tattle on me to your Ben-“
You shoot to your feet. “I am worried about the safety of our team, you dipshit-“
“Then go talk to your sweet Benny Boo, and maybe he’ll let you tickle his balls for an answer-“
The door slams open, and you and Butcher both freeze.
You’ve never found Ben as scary as you maybe should. He’s all muscle and talk and bite, but the teeth don’t seem sharp when they’ve only ever been bared for you. He tells you he’s a breathing fucking weapon, so you should watch your mouth. You ask him why you should bother, when he’s watching it for you. He laughs in that way that only you ever get to hear, and tosses his arm around you on the couch. Not a danger. A mountain of a man, that you know better than to try and topple with nothing more than moral hands.
A mountain that you’re used to bowing down to your height. That usually looks at everyone else like he’s measuring the minimum amount of effort he can use to crush their skull, right before offering you a hand to climb. When you take it, his lips twitch. When you tell him you don’t need help, he stares at you like he’s still learning how to look.
You know what the team says about you. What they think about the peace you’ve found with Ben, and the way it lingers around him whenever you’re near. But that’s really all it is. An understanding. Something close to friendship that you’re not brave enough to name. You think about him in the dark. He tries to fuck you, and you turn him down because you know.
It would be easier to fall for him that it should be. Whatever things are broken inside of you, he’s made of a kind of gold that pours into the cracks and makes them shine. But it’s fool’s gold. It would crack under pressure, leaving you more hollow than before. He’s not the kind of man that would want to build something. You only want to build something. And so he gets nothing, and you remain empty in a way that still lets your heart beat.
And you never fear Ben.
Not until he’s looming in the doorway, glaring between you and Butcher with a white-knuckle grip on the door and a glint in his eyes.
Butcher takes a small step back. You can’t move. Ben makes a low, rumbling sound from his chest, and the air suddenly feels hot and wet. No one dares to move.
“Ben,” you breathe, and his gaze snaps to yours. “Wha- Are you okay-“
He vanishes. You feel the floor rumble, as he stomps away, leaving you and Butcher frozen in the room. You turn slowly, glaring at Butcher. He throws you a winning grin, and slips out the door before you can ask if that seemed normal. Your fingers curl on the table.
Something’s going on, and you’re going to figure out what the fuck it is.
In the days after the meeting, Ben seems to almost get better. He speaks again. He walks around and jokes and smokes on the couch like everything is normal. Butcher acts like nothing happened, but you catch MM and Hughie giving him cautious looks. Annie and Kimiko are hanging around you more, and Ben seems angrier about it than usual.
“I think we need a new dryer,” you mutter one morning, sighing when Hughie gives you a curious look. “It’s eating my underwear.”
“Eating your- What?”
“My underwear. Like- How washers eat socks.” You frown at your cereal, poking it with your spoon. “It’s all going missing, I think it’s the dryer-“
“The fuck is wrong with the dryer,” Ben grunts, dropping next to you at the table.
“She thinks it’s eating her underwear,” Hughie mumbles, watching you nervously. “Are you sure you’re not just like- Dropping it in the hall or something?”
“Yes, I- I’ve even gone back and checked, it’s all just- It’s getting eaten, I swear-“
“Well- Um-“ Hughie glances at Ben. “Has your underwear been eaten?”
“Fuck no,” Ben grunts, and you sigh.
“He doesn’t believe in the dryer.”
Hughie blinks. “What- What do you mean, doesn’t believe in it?”
“Too many fucking buttons,” Ben grumbles. “Never trust a fucking robot to do what you can do with your goddamn hands. I wash my shit in the sink.”
“Mhm,” you smile at your coffee. “And then I wash it with the machine.”
Ben glares at you. You smile in return, and his mouth twitches. You expect a smart little comment about whatever gets you touching his boxers. Instead his eyes dart to your cereal, then your mouth.
“What-“
“You’re not eating.”
You blink. “I- I was talking to Hughie-“
“Why.”
“Because- My underwear- And-“ You swallow. The room is getting hot again. Ben’s glare is almost like a laser, driving into your body. “Ben, I’m going to eat-“
He grunts, and pushes the food closer to your body. He doesn’t look satisfied until you’ve cleared the bowl. You glance at Hughie, who seems just as lost as you do.
“Um- The dryer-“
“I’ll look at it,” Ben stands up, his own coffee and bacon completely ignored. You and Hughie exchange another look.
“Ben,” you say gently. “You- You can’t even turn it on-“
“It’s just fucking buttons, I’ll figure it out-“
“But- Ben-“
He’s already walking away. You chase after him, and barely manage to stop him from ripping up the whole laundry room. You’re not sure if this is part of it. You’re not really sure of anything right now, except odd looks behind your back, and your increasingly declining supply of underwear.
You keep an eye on him, closer than you have to. You don’t want him exploding, or going feral, or getting sick. If he gets sick, you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with it.
If he gets sick, you’re going to have to watch him get pale and small, and the thought makes your gut turn into a tight, strangling fist that reaches your throat. You spend the night curled up, staring at the ceiling. You walk to Ben’s room and linger outside the door, then shake yourself and go back to your room. You’re not some foolish, doting nurse. You’re his friend, and he’s a grown man who can take care of himself.
“Are you feeling okay?” You ask him in the morning, because you can’t help it.
Ben laughs, rich and deep. “Feel like a million fucking dollars, doll.”
“Hm,” peer at him on the couch. He’s relaxed. The color on his face is back to normal, and his thigh is pressed against yours easily. Ben catches your gaze, and smirks.
“You got something you wanna say to me?”
“No,” you say quickly, and Ben laughs.
“You gonna take my fucking temperature? Ask about my sleep and my fucking smoking habits?”
Your nose twitches. “No, I’m just- You had a fever yesterday-“
Ben cuts you off with a grunt. “I don’t get fucking fevers.”
“You were sweating, Benjamin-“
“Room was hot,” he grumbles. “Don’t lose your damn head about it.”
You scowl, moving up to your knees. “I’m not- You were acting weird,” you hiss. “You weren’t talking, and you- You didn’t touch me once-“
You cut yourself off, face flooding with heat, and Ben’s smile becomes wolfish.
“Oh,” he drawls, turning in his seat. “You missed me touchin’ you?”
“I- That’s not what I said-“
“Isn’t it?” He leans forward, fingers brushing near the top of your thigh. “You want my touch, sweetheart, all you have to do is say please.”
You narrow your eyes, tipping your chin up like it can defend you. “Fuck you.”
“Don’t you want to,” he teases, and your jaw drops.
“I- You’re fucking- I hate you.”
He laughs. His fingers trace the hem of your shorts. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re a shit fuckin’ liar-“
“You’re a shit fucking liar.” You spit, hoping he buys the false venom in your voice. “You were sick, Benjamin.”
Ben shrugs. “And you’re givin’ me the sex look.”
Goddamn him. Every, massive, cocky inch of him, and how you can’t seem to figure out how to stop him from affecting you. “I- I am not- There’s no- No-“ You look around the room, leaning forward to hiss low enough no one will hear. “There’s no fucking sex look.”
Ben hums, looking you up and down with that dragging gaze. The one that makes your body hum in excitement, that feels like more pressure than any other man’s hands.
“Stop doing that,” you snap, and he laughs.
“You’re real mouthy this morning, aren’t you.”
You scowl, sinking back into the cushions. “I’m hungry.”
Ben goes rigid. His hand fists on his knee, and his eyes lock on yours with that gleam again. You blink, leaning slightly back. Ben’s mouth presses in a thin line, and a low grumble rolls from his chest.
“Wha- What-“
He stands up, and marches away. You don’t move, too confused to remember how. Things hadn’t been back to normal, but they’d been a stilted version of it. Then he’s gone again, leaving you with too many fucking questions and an empty couch.
You’re seconds away from following him, when he stomps back into the room with a scowl.
“Ben, what’s- Shit-“
He tosses an apple straight into your lap. You fumble with it for a second, trying to figure out if a secret code or something, then look up at him with an openly confused expression.
“I- Um-“
“Eat that,” he grunts.
You blink. “What?”
“You said you’re fucking hungry, didn’t you?” He snaps, jerking his head to the apple. “Eat.”
You stare at each other for a long moment. The apple feels heavier than diamond in your hand, but Ben’s gaze is a burning, impossible pressure. It presses down against your core and makes your thighs ache. His eyes have gone almost wholly black. He’s back to that predatory stillness. You look at the apple, then him, and slowly raise it to your mouth.
Ben watches you take a large bite, and hums in satisfaction. You chew, and his eyes gleam. A little juice dribbles down your chin, and your tongue swipes out to catch it on instinct.
He moves back. You sit up, the apple tight in your fist, and Ben stumbles backwards like you’d punched him.
“Ben, what the fuck-“
He marches away again. You’re alone again, this time with an apple instead of Butcher.
At least the apple is less judgmental, while still offering the exact same amount of answers. You stare at it for twenty minutes, before you move. Ben doesn’t come out of his room for hours, and when he does, he won’t even look at you.
And that heat. The air-waving, mouth-watering heat is back, rolling off of him like an approaching storm. No one else seems to notice it. You’d think you were going insane, if you didn’t still have that apple, tight in your fist.
“You didn’t finish it,” Ben grunts from behind you, and you yelp in surprise.
“Jesus fucking- Ben-“
You whirl around, and cut yourself off. He’s right behind you. His legs are pressed to yours, his arms braced at his side, the weight of him almost locking you against the counter. Your hold on the apple goes slack, and it thuds to the floor. Ben’s glare deepens. His brow is beaded with sweat again.
“Hi,” you breathe, and he grunts.
“You were supposed to eat the fucking apple.”
“I- I had eggs,” you say, and Ben’s jaw locks.
He takes a long breath through his nose, leaning further down. This is the kind of thing that should make you want to run. It doesn’t.
“Who the fuck made you eggs,” Ben growls, and you blink.
“Me? I- I mean- I made me eggs- And- Um-“ You scan over his red face, his black eyes, and God, all that heat is so intoxicating you might be getting dizzy. “Be- Ben?”
He grunts your name. His arms brace on either side of your body. You might be about to melt.
“Can I please check your temperature?” You whisper. “I’m getting really worried. About-“ You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and forcing the words out. “About you.”
Ben doesn’t answer. You don’t dare to look. There’s something hard and thick, poking into your upper thigh. You grab Ben’s forearm for balance, and a low, dangerous sound rumbles from his chest.
Then, suddenly, the weight of him is gone. And when you open you’re eyes, it’s almost like he was never there at all.
Hughie coughs from the dining table, and you blink at him. You hadn’t even realized he was there.
“What- What the hell was that?”
You shake your head, staring blankly ahead at the wall. “I- I don’t-“ You cut yourself off, then look back to Hughie. “You were on the mission.”
Hughie swallows. “I- Um-“
“Hughie-“
“What mission?” He says, moving to his feet. “I mean- We go on so many, it’s easy to lose track-“
You block his path out of the kitchen, and he swallows.
“Please don’t-“
“Sit,” you point back to his chair, and he obeys.
“I- I really- I think Annie’s calling me-“
“Talk,” you hiss, and Hughie swallows. “Now.”
Ben got hit with a chemical. Hughie doesn’t know what—none of them do—but you’ve got a theory.
It’s a fragile thing. The way he’s acting, how you could possibly deal with it. You walk into the kitchen in the morning and find that he’s made you eggs. The plate gets shoved towards you with a grunt. Ben doesn’t stop staring until you’ve eaten every last bite, and then he stomps away without another word. You do your laundry and catch him staring at your clothing with twitching hands. You shower that night and open the door to find him standing in the hall, his whole body tense and his mouth hanging open.
“Ben,” you say gently, and he takes another one of those stumbling steps back.
You sigh, as he vanishes down the hallway. He hasn’t had a normal conversation with you in three days. The last time you bothered to try, he’d pinned you down on the couch and stared until you whispered his name, and he ran again.
He spends most days locked in his room. He comes out to make sure you’ve eaten or follow you to the grocery store, pressing behind you in the milk aisle and glaring at anyone who comes too close.
“Do you want anything?” You ask him softly before you go to checkout, and he just stares at you. Some days he’s not even talking anymore. Last night Annie tried to walk past you both on the couch, and he snarled like a dog.
He leans down until his nose is pressed to your hairline. His lips drag over your brow, and you stare up at him, trying not to let your heart burst out of your chest. He inhales deeply, and a low rumble rolls through his chest. His hand finds your waist, massaging and kneading at the skin.
Your gaze drops down, and there it is again. The outline of his cock, tenting in his jeans. You bite the inside of your mouth. Your knees wobble, and your hand flies to Ben’s shoulder. He’s burning up, skin searing even through his shirt.
He yanks back again, eyes black and chest heaving. You sigh, and turn back to the grocery cart. You’re too used to it now. It makes you worry more.
You try to get a straight answer out of Butcher that night. It’s somehow more useless than last time.
“I know Hughie blabbed, ain’t no reason in tryin’ to talk to me-“
“You know what’s wrong with him,” you hiss, and Butcher shrugs.
“Maybe. Gonna make any fuckin’ difference to what you’re doin’?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m fucking asking-“
“Oh, like you ain’t figured it out yourself.”
You glare at him. He smirks back, challenge lining every inch of his expression.
“You gonna go put your money where your mouth is, doll?” Butcher mocks. “Or just keep whinin’ around about it?”
And you don’t have an answer. Because he’s right. You figured it out when Ben snarled at MM for offering you a cup of coffee, a boner pressing through his sweats that everyone pretended to ignore. It would take a true idiot, to not be able to figure it out.
“When did you know,” you mumble, leaning back against the counter. Butcher shrugs, watching you carefully.
“Moment it hit the fucker.”
“Where you there-“
“I was the only cunt in the room.” Butcher shudders. “He started moanin’ and gettin’ hard, it was the most disgustin’ thing I’d ever seen.”
You sigh, giving him an unimpressed look, and Butcher smirks.
“He was cryin’ for you, love. Almost had to put him back under to stop him just sprintin’ back to the house to take you. Like a fuckin’ dog.”
You blink. Your heart does a little flip that you refuse to acknowledge. “He hasn’t touched me-“
“Don’t know why,” Butcher mutters. “I thought I was gonna follow him inside and find him- Well, you know.” He winks, and you narrow your eyes.
“But he hasn’t. Which-“ You swallow, looking up to the ceiling and biting your tongue.
It’s fine. It’s fine if it’s not you he wants to do this with. Probably for the better. It helps you cling to that last shred of dignity. The sliver of an illusion, that you don’t think about him more than you think about yourself,.
“Do we think this- Can it hurt him?” Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. Butcher just shrugs.
“Ain’t gonna kill him. Probably hurts.” His lip curls. “Permanent fuckin’ blue balls. Hell don’t go deep enough.”
You sigh. “Well, what if we hire him like- a hooker-“
“Tried that,” Butcher dismisses. “Almost got punched through a damn wall.”
Your mouth opens, then closes. “What? That’s- Ben wouldn’t turn down a hooker-“
“He did,” Butcher gives you a pointed look. “And it ain’t a hooker he’s makin’ eggs for, genius.”
You blink at him. “No, that’s- That isn’t part of it-“
“You willin’ to bet his life on that?”
And you aren’t. You’re not willing to bet anything. Because it hasn’t just been boners and staring. Ben’s been feeding you, following you like all illusion of not being your personal guard doesn’t matter anymore, refusing to let you do anything that might get you hurt.
“But- If it’s just a sex chemical,” you say slowly, and he cuts you off with a raised hand.
“I ain’t holdin’ your hand through this,” he says. “You talk to him yourself, and-“ He looks you up and down, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Bring protection. We don’t need soldier tots runnin’ around the house now, do we.”
“Butcher-“
“Not just a sex chemical,” he shrugs. “And you know it.”
You do. You wish you didn’t but you do.
A sex chemical would be easier. You could climb into bed with Ben, get railed into oblivion, then collect your heart off the floor and move on. But this is more. This is possessive and targeted and that means something. Something you don’t want to know. Something you have to know.
Butcher leaves you in the kitchen to collect yourself. You close your eyes, and try to control your breath, but it’s useless against your pounding heart. He turned down hookers. He moaned your name.
If this means nothing, you’re going to fucking kill him.
If it means something, you’re ready to deal with it. You don’t think you really have any other choice.
“Ben?” You knock on the door once, forcing your voice to steady. “Ben, can you please- We need to talk.”
He doesn’t answer. You weren’t expecting him to. The knock was more of a polite courtesy, then a question. You steel yourself, holding the doorknob with shaking fingers, and push into his room.
You barely make it a step inside, before all the will is knocked out of your body. It’s as if you walked into a wet dream. One of the private, dirtiest ones that make you wake up with the sheets bunched between your legs, that make reality feel like a slap to the face.
The room reeks of sex. Salty and heady, sweat and something rich that just smells like Ben. The sheets have been ripped and tangled on the floor, the pillows tossed off the unimportant corners of the room with piles of boxer and shirt and panties.
Your panties.
Ben sits, silent and dark-eyed on the bed, completely naked. One hand is fisting on of your panties, the other is wrapped tight around his thick, red cock. It’s veiny and so big it makes you sore just to look at. It throbs in his grip, and your cunt pulses in return. White pre-cum leaking from under his thumb, and his balls sit heavy between his thighs.
Your tongue darts out over your lips, and you force your gaze to drag up. Ben’s staring at you with a vein in his brow and that same burning intensity. The heat lingers in the air, humid and electric. Sweat falls from his neck, over his broad, flushed chest. His thighs are locked, his lips parted and eyes narrowed.
You glance back to the panties in his hand and swallow. You suppose, at the very least, you were right.
“I lost those,” you breathe, and Ben grunts.
“I’ll give ‘em back later.”
You blink, then glance at the pile in the corner of the room. Ben doesn’t look away from you for a second, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. It sends a thrill up your spine, and you have to lean back against the door to stay upright.
“You here just to collect your panties, doll?”
You shake your head, looking back to him hopelessly. You’d had a whole speech, about how he needed you to fix this, how you knew it must hurt, how if he asks nicely, you’ll let him take what he wants. It’s misting into thin air, with every thin, fraying thread that had been holding your dignity. Ben doesn’t make it easy. His gaze rakes over your body, a strange, blurred line between worship and hunger etched over his handsome features.
You don’t know how you’re supposed to pretend like this. With all of him at your fingertips, only a few steps away. You’d prepared yourself to be a toy, but you’re a lamb to slaughter. An offering to a god who won’t take anything else, who holds your sanity like a delicate bird in his rough hands. He could destroy you, and you’re going to thank him. He could recreate you, and you’d never know a better blessing.
Ben leans back, something iron lining his words. “You should go.”
You shake your head, and his jaw ticks.
“Go.”
There’s a low, deep command in the word. You almost obey.
“Those are mine,” you breathe, nodding to the panties, and Ben sighs.
“Fuckin’ Christ- Go-“
“Why are they mine?”
The question is soft. You know he hears it, because he goes quiet again. You stare at each other for another long moment, and you take the smallest step forward. A low groan pulls from Ben’s throat. Your knees almost buckle.
“Don’t,” he gives you a look like it’s a command, but there’s something thinner under the word. Something soft.
“I- I know about the chemical,” you whisper, and Ben’s throat bobs. “You could’ve asked-“
“Ask what? For you to suck my cock? Like some limp-dick pussy who can’t handle his booze?”
Your lips twitch. “Your dick isn’t limp.”
Ben gapes at you. His cock jumps in his hand, and you take another step.
“You’re- Fucking unbelievable,” he grunts, and you laugh. “This shit ain’t funny, doll-“
“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, stopping right above him.
No part of you is touching. Every inch feels gravitational. He has to be the one to crash first.
“You turned down hookers for me,” you whisper, and Ben scowls.
“It doesn’t want hookers.”
You glance at his cock, then his tight face. “What does it want?”
He glares. You don’t back down. You never have before, and you’re not about to start now.
“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease-“
“Don’t be a dick,” you lean down. Ben’s legs part to make room for you. It’s an effort, not to just touch him. “What does it want, Ben.”
What do you want.
He hears the invisible question. His jaw works, and his eyes drop to your lips.
“I’ll fuckin’ break you,” he rasps, and you smile.
“No,” you say. “You like me too much.”
Ben’s gaze rips back up. You raise your brows, daring him to do it. To say it. To put you both out of your misery.
A low growl rips through his chest. “Go. Now.”
You don’t move, and watch as the last line of Ben’s control snaps.
He grabs you by the waist and drags you fully into his lap. You gasp as his lips smash against yours, the kiss rough and demanding. There’s so part of you that isn’t consumed by it, that doesn’t mold into his touch. Your legs spread so you can straddle his lap, and Ben grabs your ass with a grunt, forcing you up so his cock is pressed against your clothed cunt. You moan against his lips, and he presses his tongue into your mouth.
“Be- Ben-“ Your nails scrape at his shoulders, and he squeezes your ass with a grunt. “Fuck- Ben-“
“Already whining,” he mutters, dragging his free hand up to rest on the back of your neck. “Barely fuckin’ touched you are you’re already sayin’ my name like I fucked you.”
Your face burns, and Ben weaves his hand through your hair, gathering it in on fist and pushing it down to deepen the kiss. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself. His touch is hot and possessive, sending shivers through your whole body. His cock rubs against your underwear with every shift, and the pressure makes your legs spread wider. You start to grind down to chase the friction, and Ben moans, deep and low.
“That’s it,” he grunts, massaging your ass with shockingly gentle hands. “That’s a good girl. Show me what you’ve got, doll, prove that you’re gonna take this cock for me.”
You try to drag him closer, but he’s immovable. When you push, his hand moves from your ass to your lower back, pushing down so you can feel every inch of his dick, rubbing between your thighs. You make a strangled noise, and Ben chuckles. It’s an even rougher sound than before. His mouth has started to wander over your cheeks and jaw, pressing open, sloppy, kisses everywhere he can reach.
It’s almost like you’re being seduced into the same, sex-focused daze that’s taken a hold of him. The kisses light undying fires over your skin, spreading and spreading until you think you’ll die if he moves away. Ben’s started to lose focus himself, pawing at your ass like an animal and growling against your skin.
“Bennn,” you moan as his fingers graze on your inner thigh, turning your face to bury in his neck. “Mmmm- Ben- M- More-“
He growls again, and his hips slam up. It knocks the air from your lungs, and he’s not even inside you. Your arms wrap around his neck, trying to hold on as he starts to rut against your core, broken, desperate sounds falling from his lips.
You manage to lean back to look at him, and he’s thoroughly wrecked. He grabs your jaw, still rutting, and you try to smile. His nostrils flare and he kisses you again, the fervor only seeming to build as he chases his own orgasm. You hum against his lips, trying to make yourself pliant and soft, easy for him to use.
“Smell good,” he rasps against your skin, beard tickling against your neck. “Always smell so- So fuckin’ good-“
He cuts himself off with another groan, his cock twitching between your thighs. He shoves you further down, rocking his hips back and forth as he keeps trying to get there against your body.
“Gonna wreck you,” he mutters, mouthing at a pulse point. “Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, fuck you stupid, fuck you mine.”
You moan happily, dragging your hands down his bare, thick back. The muscles ripple under your touch, and Ben moans like that touch is almost enough to set him off. You kiss over his cheekbone and beard, along his jaw, and slowly guide his mouth back to yours. He lets you lead this kiss, mindlessly focused on trying to fuck himself against your body. He’s panting so hard you’d be worried about anyone else.
He groans against your lips, clawing at your clothing with blunt nails. “Off- Get- Fuck- Get this shit off-“
He whines like a dog when you push on his chest, and you expect him not to let you up, but his grip loosens. You smile down at him, moving back to your feet, and he stares at you with a slack jaw.
“Get back here,” he growls, one hand still splayed on the back of your thigh. “Now.”
“I’m helping you,” you tease, slowly pulling down your shorts. “Say please.”
Ben’s eyes flash, and his jaw locks. You know he won’t beg. You don’t really want him to. This—the undivided, adoring attention, the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing he could ever possibly want in the world, when he’s spent a century of life indulging in sweet things and easier desires—is more than enough.
You sink to your knees, and he lets you. That hand on your thigh drags up to fist back in your hair, and he goes back to that predatory stillness as you rub his thighs with light hands.
“I ain’t beggin’,” he grunts, and you hum, letting your fingers brush against the base of his cock.
Ben’s hips jerk up, a moan ripping from his chest. You giggle, guiding his hand away, and he glares at you under hooded eyes.
“Something fuckin’ funny?”
“Mmm,” you shrug, wrapping your hand around his cock, and god, he’s even bigger than he looks. “I’m just… Learning.”
“Learning,” Ben echoes, the awe pushed through gritted teeth. “Jesus fuckin’- Christ-“
You lick a long, slow stripe up the length of Ben’s cock, and he tosses his head back like he’s praying.
“Holy- Fuckin’ hell-“ He tugs at your hair without actually trying to move it, biceps bulging as he tries not to overtake your mouth. “You’re- warm-“
You giggle again, pumping your fist as you kiss the tip. Ben makes a low, sinful sound, his free hand fisting at the sheets. You’ve never seen him in such control of himself. A living god that could skullfuck you until you sobbed, trying to let you lead your way. You think it’s something in the way he’s holding you like you’re made of lace instead of silicone. It makes an unbearable ache return to your core.
You take Ben in your mouth until he bumps against the back of your throat, and he groans your name so loud it must echo through the city. You work what you can’t fit in your mouth, sucking on his cock like it’s candy.
“Fuckin’- You can suck some fuckin’ cock, doll-“ He chokes out, hips bucking when you squeeze him near the base. “Best mouth I’ve ever felt- Son of a-“
His words turn to moans, and you look up at him under your lashes. He’s leaning back with a glazed eyes and veins pushing at his neck. His shoulders are tense, his abdomen flexing, and you can’t control your own hips as they start to chase relief against the air. Ben catches the movement, watching it as if he’s under a spell. His cock is heavy and pulsing in his mouth, and it just makes your cunt ache more, imagining the weight of him buried inside of you.
“Jesus, you’re a needy thing,” he mutters, his thumb dragging over the soft skin behind your ear. “You fuckin’ like this? Like choking on some proper dick?”
You whine, eyes rolling back as he presses back against your throat. You press your shoulder forward, forcing your tits further up for him to see. Ben jaw clenches, and you feel him try to not move. His pre-cum is getting thicker, and who knows how long he’d been going before you.
“Ben,” you pull off for a split second, dropping your hand to massage his balls as you kiss over the head of his dick. “Please.”
You drop back down, and he understands in a second. He uses you like a toy, pulling your head up before slamming it back down. You make your jaw slack, moaning around him with every single thrust. Your eyes roll back in your head, and the need builds and builds between your thighs.
You drag you’re hips forward shamelessly, grabbing Ben’s leg and angling your clit to rub against whatever it can reach. Ben groans at the sight, and the sound just floods between your legs.
“Shit, I can feel how fuckin’ wet you are,” he growls, and you whimper, watching him under glossy lashes. “Shit- Lookin’ at me like that, gonna make me-“
You moan eagerly, and Ben’s control snaps again.
It’s fun to see the edges of it. How the pit of his restraint is far deeper than you would’ve imagined a week ago. He tries to drag you off his cock as he cums, but you push yourself back down. It comes in thick, sticky ropes, shooting down your throat until you’re gagging and almost unable to breathe. You try to swallow, but there’s so much it falls out of your mouth like drool, dripping down your cheeks and onto your breasts.
“Jesus, thought you were gonna drown in it,” Ben pulls your dazed head off, grinning down at you. “Look at you, baby. Little fuckin’ trooper.”
You blink at him, still trying to lick the remains off your lips. You glance down to his cock, and it’s still hard. How the fuck is it still hard.
“Hasn’t been goin’ down since that shit hit me,” Ben mutters, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Needs it’s pussy.”
“It’s pussy?” You breathe out, and Ben sighs.
“Your pussy,” he mutters. “Needs you, smartass.”
“It needs me?”
You give him your best innocent look. He glares at you, and you just tilt your head, smiling like you’re made of honey. You sort of feel like you are. You’ve never been this gooey, just from sucking a guy off. You’ve never even liked sucking someone off.
But this is Ben. Rough everywhere, but made of tiny divets that go soft when pressed. The kind of man you can crawl into and never have a harsh hand find your body again.
He swallows, his thumb lingering on your lips. You kiss the pad of it, then the knuckle, before slowly wrapping your lips around him and sucking. Ben’s cock twitches, somehow getting harder. You don’t think you’re ever going to walk again.
Worth it.
“I need you,” he rasps, pulling his thumb away. “Feet. Now.”
He taps your nose, and you scramble up. You’ll fight him tooth and dirt when he’s fighting back. When he’s not, you can’t think of a single reason to deny him a thing.
Ben grabs the back of your thigh again, watching you with an expectant glint in his eyes. You swallow and pull your shorts down, trying not to fall over when he stares at your core like you’re showing him a treasure. His fingers dig into soft skin, and his free hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly as you continue to strip in front of him.
You peel off your shirt, and Ben’s tongue darts over his lips. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he slowly coaxes you forward. You rest your hands on his shoulders, shoving down the bubbling, electric nerves in your chest.
“Ben,” you whisper, and he hums, dragging a massive, rough hand up your side. “E- Easy-“
“Oh, doll,” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your breast. “This is easy.”
Your legs wobble, your confidence quickly waning. The doubts start to pool like rainwater in a gutter, as Ben takes in your naked body. Maybe you weren’t the dream doll he had in his head. Maybe you pushed it too far with the teasing. Maybe he doesn’t really want you in the same, volcanic kind of way you want him.
He drags two fingers along your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin as he mouths at your breast. You close your eyes, trying to just breathe, and Ben chuckles.
“And you wanted me to say please,” he drawls. “Look at you, all fuckin’ sweet for me. You gonna beg for me again, baby? Or that mouth only good for sucking my cock?”
You whimper, a gush of heat flooding between your thighs.
“Yeah, you like me talking,” Ben mutters, kissing over your sensitive nipple. “Like knowing you’ve got the only fuckin’ pussy in the world that makes me act like an idiot. Pretty girl, pretty fuckin’ tits,” he sucks a dark spot on your breast, his thumb slowly dragging between the lips of your cunt. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy, wet like a whore in the summer for me.”
Ben thumbs at your slit, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking hard. His thumb drags up in the exact same moment, finding your clit and rubbing tight, unrelenting circles. You vision blurs and you stumble forwards, wrapping your arms tight around his head.
“Be- Fuck- Bennnn-“
He hums around your nipple, grazing his teeth over the perked bud. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue flicking back and forth until you’re in a sex-addled frenzy. You press your face into his hair, gasping his name as he drags his thumb back and forth across your clit.
He wraps a massive arm around your body, fingers splaying over your back and cradling you close to his body.
“Feel that fuckin’ mess,” he drawls, kissing over your breasts. “No one else gets you this wet, do they?”
You shake your head, and Ben leans back with narrowed eyes. He slaps your pussy with a harsh little tap, and a broken cry escapes your lips.
“Do they,” he growls, and you shake your head.
“No- No-“ You try to lean down, desperate to just kiss him, to get as close as he’ll allow. “Just you, Ben, just you-“
He smirks, slaps your cunt again, and goes back to making out with your nipples. You moan, slumping over his body as the tension becomes almost painful. You don’t know what he’s getting out of this until you feel his hips rocking beneath you. His cock rubs against his stomach and your thigh, already smeared with pre-cum again. You gasp and Ben moans around your nipple, the sensation vibrating through your whole body.
“Oh- Oh my god-“ You squirm, the pressure getting unbearable. “I- I’m- Oh my god-“
You’re babbling, but you’re not sure what else there is to do. You cunt his clenching around nothing, the thick scent of Ben clouding your head as he works you like a toy. Ben nips at your nipple and pushes his thumb down hard. Your knees buckle, almost making you fall back to your knees on the carpet.
Ben’s arm around your back tightens, and he rolls you both over, tossing you back onto the mattress without even a grunt. You almost cry out at the sudden cold, the lack of Ben all around you. It only lasts a second before he grabs your ankle and drags you forward.
You’re lain on the bed, staring at Ben with an open expression. His jaw clenches and he rubs your thighs, slowly pushing your knees up to your chest. Your cunt is on full, open display to him, and your breath catches as he drags his thumb between the swollen lips of your pussy.
“Look at that,” he almost purrs. “Mine.”
You whimper when he flicks your clit again, but it quickly falls into a moan as he leans down and presses an open mouth kiss to your pussy. Your eyes roll back in your head, your hips arching to meet his chapped, full lips. Ben groans against your cunt, his grip on your legs tightening.
You’ve had men eat you out before. You’ve had them be good at it, and horrible.
Ben does it like it’s a job, and he’s never hated work a day in his life. You were already on such a thin wire that the first press of his tongue against your clit makes you snap, a cry falling from your lips and your hands flying wildly to catch a hold of something. Ben grabs them and pins them against your stomach, forcing you down into the mattress as his mouth keeps working against your cunt.
He’s open with it, moaning and sucking and pushing his tongue into your fluttering cunt as he rocks his face back and forth, dragging your orgasm out until you’re almost floating. The heat hasn’t stopped building. Every time you think you’re going to come down, Ben kisses your clit, and darts his tongue back and forth like he’s trying to get a high score of most orgasms in an hour.
Maybe two hours. You can hear the bed creaking in a steady rhythm, as Ben’s fucks down into the mattress, but then he drags another orgasm out of you, and the only thing in the world is Ben’s mouth against your cunt. The sounds he makes, the way he’s watching you under hooded, smug eyes, the way his massive back forces your legs further apart whenever you try to close them and exposes you to him further.
You writhe when your third orgasm hits, shoving at his head with weak hands.
Ben draws back, pinning your legs down to the bed and fixing you with a stern glare.
“Stay still,” he grunts, and you swallow.
“Too- Too much-“
“You want cock?” He snaps, and you nod frantically. “Only good girls get cock, baby. You bein’ a good girl when you whine?”
Your lip wobbles. Your face burns. Ben raises his brows, daring you to be a brat, and any other day you would. You’d stick your tongue out and mock him, you’d test his buttons, you’d see just what you could say, to get bent over his lap or tossed around the bed.
But there are tears streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never been so totally aware of how empty you are. You really think the chemicals might be contagious. You really don’t fucking care.
“No,” you whisper, shame burning at your cheek and between your thighs. “I’m not.”
Ben hums, spits on your clit, and starts to rub it with a fast thumb. “You gonna be a good girl?”
You nod, and Ben smirks.
“Yeah. I know.”
He dives back down, and stars burst behind your eyes as another orgasm overtakes your body. You’re trembling and gasping for air, pulling at his hair and only earning another moan that makes your back arch. Ben laps at you through the orgasm, hips still slamming against the bed.
Then, one second, his beard his grazing over your inner thigh and his lips are pressed against the over sensitive, pulsing bundle of nerves. The next you’re face down with a thick arm around your stomach, dragging you back against Ben’s chest like a ragdoll.
“Need to get in that pussy,” he growls, dragging his cock between the lips of your cunt. “Give you this cock real good, show you who the fuck you belong to, right now.”
Ben bites and sucks on your neck, the head of his dick bumping against your clit, but he still doesn’t push inside. Your nails dig into your forearm, the wet sound of him sliding against you filling the room, and you almost don’t know what the fuck he’s waiting for.
“Please,” you breathe out, dropping your head against his shoulder and giving him your best, sweetest eyes. “Please, Ben- Fuck me.”
Another one of those feral sounds rips from Ben’s chest, and his hand drags down to press two thick fingers against your clit as he slowly pushes himself inside. The breath is knocked from your lungs at the first inch, a broken sound escaping your lips.
Ben’s free arm wraps around your neck, the bulging bicep forcing your head back further so he can kiss over your open, drooling mouth.
“That’s it,” he coos, rubbing your clit back and forth as he presses deep into your cunt. “That’s a good little slut, takin’ just what I give you, come on-“
You whimper, and Ben deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue down your throat as he pushes another inch. You clench down around him and he groans, kissing you brutally as he bullies the last few inches inside of you.
He’s so big it makes sparks dance on the edge of your vision. You’ve never been this full, every single nerve in your body all too aware of the delicious split of Ben’s cock. Between the head lock and his mouth against yours, the tears can’t stop streaming down your face. Ben growls your name, kissing a stray one near your lips, his tone a warning you can barely hear.
“Christ- You’re fuckin’ tight- Gotta- Relax-“
You can’t. You’re overstimulated and so needy you can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything but feel the smeared arousal between your thighs, the drag of Ben’s cock against your g-spot, the muscle and heat of his body wrapped all around you.
You clench down again, and the very last bit of Ben’s resolve snaps.
He cums inside of you suddenly, moaning down your throat as he ruts up in short, rough thrusts. The cum spills into your until you’re warm and stuffed, then runs down your ass and over your thighs. It’s so wet you think he’d slip right out of you, if it wasn’t for the headlock. You’re so full you don’t even remember how to breathe, until Ben squeezes just under your breast and groans your name.
“Don’t go out on me, doll, c’mon-“ He groans and kisses you again, his hand dropping back down to spread against your tummy. “Fuck- You feel so fuckin’ good- Better than coke, baby, Christ-“
You make another broken sound, your voice hoarse and small from the arm around your throat.
Then Ben starts to fuck you, and you think you might ascend.
He rolls his hips in long, deep thrusts, dragging in and out of your cunt like a machine. The sound of your cum mixing—sliding between your bodies with every single shift—is obscene. You’re being used like the most tended to, adored fuckdoll in the world. Ben cradles you like he thinks you’ll break, and fucking you like he’s trying to take you apart.
You feel him everywhere, with every single slam of his cock against your g-spot. Your vision swims, the tears falling freely, and Ben kisses every single one away with another, brutal thrust.
“Fuckin’ crying for me, babydoll?” He nips at your lower lip, and you whine a sound like his name. “Pretty girl can’t fuckin’ take it after begging? So sensitive you need to fuckin’ whine?”
You turn your cheek, giving him your best, pleading doe eyes. You can’t tell if his gaze sharpens or focuses. His thrusts become deeper, and his thumb finds your swollen, pulsing clit again. You sob, and he kisses the sound away with a hum.
“Bein’ such a good fuckin’ slut,” he mutters, pinching your clit and rolling it between his fingers. “Takin’ this cock like a pro, baby, like you were fucking made for me.
You babble his name again, and Ben smirks. This kiss is slower. Almost loving, and in a stark contrast with how he’s drilling into your gaping cunt.
The orgasm washes over you like a wave, and Ben moans your name as you squeeze down around him. Your vision goes white and you thrash, your body being wracked with so much pleasure you can only scream. Ben’s cock slams home against your g-spot, and rush of something wet and hot flood out of your pussy, and you think you might pass out.
At the least, you’re floating out of your body. Ben cums with rough, spat out praise, then slowly lowers you back down to the mattress. Weight shifts around. He rubs your back as you gasp for air, then slowly rolls you over and pushes your legs back open.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, the words far away, but his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Didn’t know you could get this fuckin’ dumb and quiet. Should’ve been fucking you every day.”
He laughs to himself, and your hand flies up, unsure what it’s looking for.
Ben catches it, twines your fingers together, kisses your knuckles, and presses it back into the mattress.
“Need more, doll,” he rasps, and you whimper. “I’ll go easy. Not tryin’ to break my-“
He cuts himself off. You don’t have the words to push him. You don’t have the energy to do anything. Ben kisses your stomach, then lower, then lower. You gasp softly, when you feel his tongue lapping at your pussy. It’s gentler than before. Slower, almost careful. He works you open, mixing your releases together and tasting it almost for the sake of tasting it.
Your eyes cross, as the soft, tickling sensations. They’re strangely relaxing, even if they make your pussy flutter hopelessly.
“Easy,” Ben murmurs, kissing over your clit. “Nice and fuckin’ easy.”
It is. You go limp again, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his tongue. He’s not trying to make you cum, or get you ready. God knows you could probably take a fist in there right now, with how he’s left you soaked and open. You can hear his fist working against his cock again, and find the energy to look up again.
He’s almost art, above you. Hair mussed and tangles, dominating your vision, whole face wet and eyes blown out. You squeeze his hand in yours and smile. He blinks, and his jaw sets as he understands.
This time, he doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He must understand by now, that you might be more depraved than even he can dream up. You’d sit on his cock for the rest of your life, if he let you. And there are worse ways to be worshipped, than with everything a man—a broken, titan of a man who’s made of more than he can understand—has to give.
You let yourself lose track of it all. Ben moves you into positions you didn’t know you could make, hauling you back into his lap, flipping you over and dragging your ass in the air, sitting you on top of him and guiding your hips back and forth until you’re mewling his name and shaking around his cock. The whole room might have to be burned, when this is over. There isn’t an inch of your body he hasn’t cum on, kissed, spanked, or grabbed.
He ends up on top of you again, holding your knees back against your chest with a single arm, fucking you slow enough to drag long, loud moans from your lips every time.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters, watching his thick, swollen cock slide in and out of your cunt, smearing and spreading hours of cum between your thighs. “My pretty fuckin’ doll.”
You moan, reaching up with shaking hands to cup the back of his neck. His gaze drags back to yours, and you smile. You don’t know where the delicate, flowering thing inside of you is coming from. You think it’s always been there, and Ben’s stripped you so bare there’s nowhere to hide it, no way to make it wither. With his hands so gentle on your hips and thighs, his gaze so clouded with adoration you think that—to anyone else—he wouldn’t look like the same man, there’s nothing left to do but let this bloom.
“I love you,” you breathe out, the first words you’ve said in hours. “I love you, Ben.”
His eyes go impossibly darker. His fingers dig into you, and he crashes forward with a groan.
Ben cums one last time, and you pass out at his kisses all over your face, murmuring words you feel more than hear.
He doesn’t say it back. You didn’t think he would. Ben coddles you like a child after, wrapping you in a shirt that somehow survived the damage and carrying out back to your room. You get a warm bath and glass of water. Your stomach rumbles, and suddenly there’s food in your hand. Ben rises you both off in the shower, his breathing heavy and his face pressed into the crook of your neck.
You can feel it with every single touch. That he’s trying to find a way to tell you. That it’s carving through his chest that he doesn’t know how.
And you’ll wait. Telling him he doesn’t have to will do nothing but make him more frustrated, and you’re happy to have whatever he can offer after… this.
He figures it out faster than you thought, though. He lays in bed with you, glaring at the ceiling and rubbing your side. You watch him, your head propped on his chest, and smile. You lean up and press a kiss to his jaw, and he grunts in surprise, his gaze dropping to yours.
You smile again. His throat bobs. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks back to the ceiling and lets out a slow, deep breath.
“Marry me.”
You blink at him. If you had an ounce of strength left in your body, you’d sit up. “What?”
“You heard me,” he grunts, glancing back down at you. “You mean what you said?”
“Of- Of course I meant it-“
“You sure?”
“Fuck you,” you shove his chest, and his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure, asshole. But-“ You point a stern finger. “I’m not marrying you.”
That makes him really, deeply frown. “Why not.”
“Because I’m not crazy.”
“That ain’t crazy, doll, you love something, you fucking marry it-“
“Marry it?” You snort. “What, are you gonna marry the fucking TV?”
“No, you brat, I’m marrying you.”
Your mouth falls open. Ben glowers at you, his fingers digging on your hips again, like he’s worried you’re going to run. “Me?” You whisper, and Ben grunts.
“Don’t see me fuckin’ proposing to anyone else, do you.”
You laugh weakly. “But this is- Ben, this is a bad proposal-“
“It is not bad-“
“It’s horrible-“
“You’re going to say yes,” he snaps, and you sigh, tracing over the line of his pecs.
There’s something raw under that demand. Something you don’t want to mock or poke at. That you want to nurture, to get him to show without barbing it in a defensive wire.
But you’re also not marrying him after one sex marathon.
“I want dinner,” you say, and he frowns.
“I’ll get you a fucking ring-“
“No.” You lean down until your noses bump. “Dinner.”
Ben glares at you. You glare back, rubbing his chest, and he slowly relaxes under your touch.
“Dinner,” he mutters, and you beam, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.
He grabs the back of your neck, holding you above him. “You’d say yes, though,” he rasps, and god help you, you would.
You just kiss him instead. Long and slow and deep, telling him in a language you know he prefers to speak. And you can feel it, under every single touch. How much he really, truly means it.
Five dinners, you tell yourself, but if Ben keeps holding you like this, you know. You’ll only last until he asks you again, and then—just like before—you’ll all too happily give in.
✦End note: theory answered: yes he can ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
I have now fully reached a point in my life where I would love to meet the actors in my favorite shows and movies but I'm also terrified that I'll say something and be that weird fan.
Like I want to tell Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki that i really appreciate them portraying Dean and Sam in a way that the characters sorta became like the older brothers I always wanted, BUT I DON'T WANT TO BE WEIRD!
And I would love to tell Sean Austin and Ian McKellen that they say they deliver some of their lines in lord of the rings are what I try and think about when I'm struggling and it makes me feel better BUT I DON'T WANT TO MAKE THEM UNCOMFORTABLE!
It all goes back to, I don't feel cool enough to know them and I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable or take up space and I live in fear of doing that.
John's curious as to why you would break things off with a seemingly great guy.
Started watching SVU from the beginning for the first time as an adult.
Became unexpectedly feral for Detective Munch.
Lack of content has brought me out of retirement.
You're in one of the courthouse break rooms grabbing a coffee when Detective John Munch comes in.
"Hey, haven't seen you in awhile," he says, also pouring a coffee. You lean back against the counter sipping yours.
You run into each other sometimes, being a stenographer. You like it when you're assigned to a trial he's called to testify on, like today. The sound of his voice. His sometimes dryly sarcastic responses given during cross examination. You both have the same sense of humor. He likes you because you never ask him to spell anything, including psychological terminology.
John gives an "ah" of understanding.
You sigh.
"Got tied up on a double homicide. Mistrial. It's on hold while they find a new jury."
"How you've been? How's Eric?" He teases pleasantly.
Eric was an up-and-coming attorney you'd started dating about two months ago.
"Over that fast? Did it even have time to get started?" John jokes.
You make a face.
"Mmm, just went ahead and ended it. Wasn't going anywhere."
You shrug nonchalant.
"Well, when you know, you know."
He nods, deciding not to push.
"You?"
"This case has been a bitch, I'm expecting the trial will be as well."
"Seems to be headed that way."
You check your watch.
"Better get back to it, recess is almost up. You know how Judge Schneider is when it comes to punctuality."
"Oh believe me, I know."
The jury reaches a verdict after three days of deliberation. Now the end of the third day, Munch is there to hear it, sitting in the gallery.
Your fingers hover over the stenotype in anticipation as they stand to deliver.
"The jury has found the defendant Not Guilty, your honor."
There's a stunned kind of silence throughout the court room. It takes you a second to process before you can transcribe it.
You glance over at Munch. Stony expression says it all.
He approaches you once it's all over, the courtroom clearing, you're gathering your things.
John's standing there tall and slender, black suit, dark grey shirt, dark salt and pepper hair brushed back. Blue tie with his signature silver tie clip.
"I could use a drink after that, care to join?"
He's not really expecting you to agree, but what the hell right.
Handsome in an academic sort of way.
"You drive?"
"Yeah, actually, same."
Can't be any harm in commiserating with someone in essentially the same field. Your friends only put up with so much of your work talk.
"No, not today, took the subway."
He looks at you, skeptical.
"What?"
He shakes his head, pulling his keys out of his pocket.
"Alright, come on."
He takes you to a quiet, little bar, where you'll actually be able to hear each other talk. Soft piano music playing in the background.
John orders a Scotch, neat, and you order a Manhattan.
After about an hour and two drinks of lamenting the outcome of the trial, debating the downfalls of the legal system, and generally catching up --John decides he's curious.
"So--wanna tell me what actually happened with Erick?" Tone only half serious.
"Is this why you brought me out? To get the details of my romantic life?" You reply, teasing.
"Well I'd tell you the details of mine, but it's non-existent," he replies in that signature deadpan way.
"I have a hard time believing that."
"Believe it."
You finish your drink and signal for another. He waits, expectantly. Sometimes half of getting people to talk is just being quiet.
"I did tell you, just wasn't going anywhere, no point in wasting time when you know it's not going to work," you explain.
John finishes his drink and leans forward, elbows resting on the bar, also signaling for another.
"Ok, but why wasn't it going anywhere? Come on, the guy is practically prince charming-- attractive, good job, promising career, nice car, apartment on the nice side of town from what I hear-- If that's not considered 'going anywhere' for women, what possible hope can there be for me?"
You smile and roll your eyes, playful, as the bartender places new drinks in front of you.
"Yeah, he sounds great on paper, but we just weren't compatible."
John studies you now, trying to read beneath the smiles and guarded responses.
"Did he hurt you?" He asks frankly.
You give him a pointed look.
"No, nothing like that Detective," you place a hand on his upper arm, attempting to placate him, "trust me, it's not that serious."
John glances down at your hand on his arm. The light touch somehow burning through his suit jacket and shirt. Brings his eyes back to yours. A moment. Another smile before you withdraw.
You each sip your drinks.
"If I tell you, it stays between us ok?"
"Hey, loose lips sink ships," John says casually, not wanting to appear over-eager.
You drink again.
"Like I said, Erik sounds great on paper, he's nice, but the sex was-- less so," You finish wryly.
"Less so?" John prompts, pleased to be making progress, but this is only piquing his interest, not satisfying it.
John processes the information, annoyed now on your behalf, but checks his composure.
You hum, thinking.
"Let's just say I never saw any sparks." You give him another pointed look, before drinking again.
"You mean, never? Not once?" He asks, casual.
"Not once," you reply simply.
The brief silence however, encourages you to continue, unable to suppress the impulse overshare while under the influence.
"Ah --well, that'll do it."
He drinks.
"He always wanted me to blow him but wouldn't eat me out--" you roll your eyes, decidedly less playful now and drink "hate that, so annoying."
John clears his throat, caught off guard by your sudden bluntness, and certain illicit images they conjure.
"Did you tell him that?" He asks, matter of fact, once he's able to form words.
"I mean, I think he tried once or twice, but it was just--disappointing."
You make a face.
"No, no need to be cruel, it's not like he did me wrong or anything, just easier to tell him it wasn't going to work."
"Sounds like he was doing you wrong." The comment is out of John's mouth before he can think. He panics momentarily, hoping he hasn't been too crude.
John cracks a smile.
But instead you're actually laughing.
"Got me there."
"Maybe he's insecure, maybe he knows he's not good at giving head so that's why he doesn't like to do it." He's playing devil's advocate now. "I mean the poor bastard can't do any better if someone doesn't teach him."
John raises a brow.
You make another face.
"He's 30-something. Not 19. If he doesn't know by now," you shrug, finishing your drink, "I'm sure he'll be fine, he'll meet someone nice."
"Someone nicer than me." You add, not sure when you and the detective had gotten so close. You're practically elbow to elbow. You can smell his aftershave -- clean and inviting. You press your thighs together. Just so.
"I don't mind driving you home," he offers, "would rather make sure you get home alive."
You check your watch, sighing.
"It's getting late. I should call a cab."
You guess you can't really argue, both knowing the hundreds of horrible possibilities that can happen at any given time in this city.
He calls the bartender over for the tab, and you both straighten up.
"I can--" you start, only for John to wave you off.
"Wouldn't dream of it, one tab please," he tells the bartender mildly.
The drive home is quiet, but comfortable. You don't want to give him the wrong directions.
"Just up here on the right, that's my building."
He pulls up to the sidewalk, eyeing the building.
"I know, it's not much, but it's decent, for New York at least."
John turns off the car.
"You know I'm walking you to your door."
You could live in the Upper East Side and he would walk you to your door. Doesn't trust anyone or anywhere at this point in his career.
"Came all this way," you tease putting in the key, "might as well come in for a night cap."
There's no doorman, which he scolds you for.
You hit the keypad for entrance, take the elevator up to the 5th floor, and walk all the way down to the end of the hall.
Thinking all the while about how you're not ready for your time with the detective to be over.
This old song and dance, John thinks, regarding you. You're looking at him with something, dare he say, dangerously akin to want.
"Twist my arm why don't you," he replies easily.
You turn on a light and slip out of your blazer, tossing it lazily over the back of the couch.
John takes the opportunity to shamelessly admire the line your body while you're not paying attention.
Formal t-shirt tucked into your modest knee length pencil skirt, lingering on the curve of your ass, then down your legs to your simple, black pumps.
You make your way over to the bar cart in your so-called dining room.
Whiskey and two glasses, setting them on the table, pouring generously.
A silent toast.
"This was nice," you hum, leaning back against the table.
"Yeah, it was," he murmurs, allowing his gaze to drop to your mouth.
John smoothly downs his in one go.
He steps forward, setting his now empty glass on the table but doesn't move away.
You're not moving away or re-directing the conversation. Just standing there looking back at him through long lashes.
He closes the small distance between you, slotting his mouth over yours. You return the kiss, lips pressed for long moments to his, before separating.
You set your unfinished drink on the table, pushing it off to the side, and returning your mouth to his. An exchange of kisses that quickly grows hungry. Your hands slipping beneath his suit jacket, palming his chest, he shrugs out of the offending item, lips still half connected to yours.
Then he's lifting you effortlessly onto the table, tongue running along your lower lip when you gasp. Dizzy from the way he licks into your mouth.
"John," you breathe. He's kissing your neck now, pushing up your skirt.
"Yeah, yes," you say pulling gently at his tie, and he's kissing you senseless again, running a hand up your thigh to the edge of your panties, lingering momentarily before long fingers are stroking your folds.
He pauses.
"You good?" He asks, looking to you for reassurance. He's not sure really if his pride can handle hearing that this was just a drunken mistaken the morning after.
He groans.
You whimper in agreement.
"Sweetheart, you're so fucking wet."
Breath hot against your skin, savoring the easy way his fingers slide over you.
He withdraws, eager now to act on what he's been thinking about half the night since you brought it up. Rolling up his sleeves and taking off his glasses. Dropping to his knees. He'll probably feel this later.
He pushes apart your thighs as you look down at him in half-lidded anticipation, lifting your hips as he slides off your underwear.
Then he's licking into you like a half-starved man, because well he is, dragging the flat of his tongue against you and moaning, pleased with the high-pitched little sigh you make, needy.
"Taste good too, baby," he says looking up at you, "so fucking good, sweet little pussy."
Returns his mouth to you, easy, taking his time, you card a hand through his hair. It isn't long before you're pushing your hips against his tongue, trying to press your thighs together. Only then does he slip two long fingers into you, stroking you deep and curling them, sure you were vocal before but now you're loud.
He hums low in his throat, pleased, tonguing your clit in a gentle, steady rhythm with his fingers.
"Fuckkk, John --"
Hand tightening in his hair, one leg thrown over his shoulder.
It's been a long time since it's been this good and suddenly it's too much, you're coming apart, John's name the only thing you're capable of saying between pants and high moans, and John just keeps going, dragging the wave all the way out, feeling you spasm on his fingers, leaking on his tongue, just when he thinks you can't get any wetter. He doesn't stop until your inner thighs start to tremble and you're oversensitive, weakly stroking his hair.
He rests his head on your thigh for a moment, gazing up at you, a few strands of dark hair falling in his face, appreciating your thoroughly fucked-out appearance.
Wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before standing.
You kiss him softly before palming his pants where he's painfully hard.
He stills your hand, reluctantly, after a few moments.
"I'm not exactly in the habit of keeping protection on me sweetheart."
"Mmm, I don't care, I'm on the pill." You reply, hand going for his belt buckle.
"You can't expect me to last very long," he says looking at you with raised brows.
"I don't care, John--just wanna feel you."
He groans, giving in, not stopping you now as you make quick work of his belt and his fly, pulling out his shirt, slipping your hand into his boxers, running your hand experimentally over his long cock.
"Hey, none of that right now angel," he pants, grabbing your wrist, he finishes pulling himself out.
Then he's easing into you, biting off a moan, your arms wrapped around his neck.
"Shit, you're tight, you're so fucking tight."
"Feels so good," you sigh, taking him with minimal effort, body thoroughly relaxed after the orgasm he just gave you.
He rolls his hips slowly into yours, setting an easy rhythm, enough to keep him just on edge, but he's still lightheaded after only a few minutes, muttering apologies and half curses under his breath that you silence by placing your lips on his.
You stay together for long moments when it's over, both still buzzed but no longer from the drinks. John thinks back to the conversation at the bar though.
"So would you say that was 'more so' than 'less so' ? See any sparks?"
Is the first one! It's a beautiful found family story that I am obsessed with. It's pure cozy family with tea and cats and trauma and healing. It's now one of my favorite books. Has the happiest of endings! Please, please read it because it's a beautiful book with so much culture and so many references and the characters are beautiful and I love them.
The Keeper of Magical Things
Is the sequel! Although there's new characters, it's the same world. This time it's a love story between two young ladies. I liked the first one better, but this is the first romance book I've read and wanted to read again.
I was rereading your Clay fic, which I love. The reader is the awkward traumatized person that I am.
I have sooo many ideas but after rereading I would like to humbly ask for a part two, pretty please?
It's really intriguing, the whole what if someone who did survive Jason was helping the current survivors. Plus I feel like Clay is just the perfect man for a traumatized person (if that's the way you choose to take it)
Whichever way, I await it eagerly! 🫂💕
Welcome back, friend!
I'm so happy you liked that one! I know I kinda played a bit far with the lore rules, but given that particular friday the 13th movie did it ahead of me I thought it would be cool. My horror fan toxic trait is thinking that Jason would read my loser vibes and relate lol
The closest thing we canonically got to an awkward traumatized one was Tina in New Blood, and she is one of my favorite friday survivor characters. Jenna and Clay are, situational-wise, kinda like a gender swapped version of the Tina x Nick subplot, with Trent being insufferably awfull like Melissa but as the asshole rich boyfriend. However, we don't have the misunderstood freak factor. The group are assholes to Clay for literally no reason, so the least I should do is having the misunderstood freak trying to help him (and dealing with a crush on the way).
Magical Thinking - Clay Miller x Reader
Warnings: standard friday the 13th stuff, meta humor about supernatural if you look for it ( reader parrots their hypothesis on Jason lore to Clay)
Summary: As you join Clay in the search for his sister, the different conceptions of what you are looking for get you intrigued of each other. He thinks of a serial killer while you speak of a force of nature. Midway into the debate, unspoken things emerge from the achieved closeness.
After six weeks of being consistently unheard, functionally abandoned in the search for his missing sister, Clay had found in you the very first glimpse of trully well meaning will of aid. Despite he couldn't deny you were quite odd, he had also realized that was the trademark of local colour in the surroundings. Almost everyone he had came across was some combination of strange, intimidating or downright disgusting, and the lack of two out of those three qualities made you stand out. If weird, you were at least genuinely nice. An unique mix of grim and cute, of sorrow and hope, all wrapped in an awkward aura that was at very least not threatening. Freakish, perhaps, but of an endearing kind.
As a search partner, it was not the worst choice out there.
Dissecting the fiction from what could be accepted as reality in the guidance you provided was not always easy, but your company brought him a light sense of ease. He was no longer alone, and you were wholheartedly convinced on his cause. If he couldn't get to fully believe you just yet, he shared the idea that you could have once escaped from the same thing that took her. Who or what this faceless attacker was? There were only theories to discuss, but the few reticent testimonies he managed to obtain anywhere else keep pointing towards yours.
Jason, the local legend you kept bringing back, had to be cause for the bone chilling warning of the weird old lady from the last home you had passed by. Less patient and empathic than what you had tried to be from the start, she told him right away that his sister had to be dead. In the light of what you had already explained, it was not hard to guess she believed he would be the next if he wouldn't leave.
Clay didn't get a chance to form any conclussion of the strange encounter before finding you once again trying to lift his spirits.
" Don't worry about that: for as much as the people may claim to know, they haven't been as close to him as I was. " Was your sweet speech of comfort, delivered as you caressed the shoulder strap of his backpack while looking once more at the poster. " Your sis seems lovely, like the kind of nice pretty girl that would stop a bunch of bullies. I would have trusted her, ... she would have been the one making me feel comfortable ... Safe. If anyone in that camping group had chances, my bet is on her. "
His subtle smile showed an awkward appreciation of your positivity stained by his vague suspicion that you were having some sort of flashback. A projection of wishful thinking regarding the tragedy you faced being poured into the image of Witney, as if you would be bulding an entire character for her in your mind fitting the scene in repeat. Part a detective trying to reconstruct a crime scene to solve the case, part a victim revisiting it.
If weird, your story building was not a completely full of wrong guess.
" She has been taking care of our sick mother for years, so you can know for sure she is resilent and compassionate. When she passed, and Witney wasn't there ... "
Stopping himself from entering the same circle, he regained composure instead of repeating what you must had already overheard from his brief argument with the cop.
" I have to find her, I can't turn my back again."
Even if you would have wished to hug him again, at that moment you lacked of the intempestiveness from your previous outburst and you feared it would make your comfort more awkward.
" Responsibility and devotion towards her mother are two things Jason can appreciate. If perhaps I'm still alive because he related to me, he must had adored her! "
He knew you meant well, but the new addition to the lore going on in your head started to piss him off.
" Is that really the consolation you think it is? Maybe she is a hostage of that maniac! "
Realizing that part of the working theory should have stayed where it came from, you sweetly backtracked fearing he would stop listening to you alltogether.
" Or maybe she got lost in the woods! In either case, there are stronger reasons within Jason's legend to believe she is alive."
Looking straight at your face to find sheer conviction with the reminder of what he had heard from the eldery resident inclined him to admit that skepticism was going to lead him nowhere. With a slow sigh of resignation, he agreed to follow by your ways.
" Fine! Since the entire area seems convinced of it ... Where do I find that bastard? "
A seriousness of heavy concern struck you to the mere suggestion, fearing for his possible death even more than your own. As the miraculous survivor, you were granted a chance that you were going to waste helping that lovely boy to find his sister. Was it only your liking of him pushing you against preservation instincts? Do you still seeked an explanation for being spared? Maybe it was a combination of both, but you had the brief suspect that you would have done anything for Clay if he would have asked you nicely enough.
" You don't find Jason, he finds you. And when he does, you run for your life. " Was your sincere reply, an aspect you couldn't sugarcoat. " ... But if you really want to find him, I think the best choice would be checking the abandoned camp. Just don't hope of capturing him to ask him about your sister: nobody can trap him for long and he won't say a word. "
Caressing his fingertips untill he would extend you the hand for you to hold, you invited him to trust you again and it seemed to work. His frustration driven distance melted into calm again and when you looked into his eyes you realized that you would have died for him.
" I know what's out there, there is no way I would be leaving you alone."
He looked down and smiled, letting you hold him for more than he should despite any instinct should have warned him that could be awkward. Nothing seemed too strange for you, and neither of you have had that kind of mutually found comfort in a long time.
" What if we try my way a few more times? And if it doesn't work, we go check the other side of the lake ... and the camp through the woods."
Clay didn't have to ask twice and you were already leaning for the passenger spot in your next bike ride with him. Despite your insistence in denying it at every stop, he could tell you were quite unused and trying to play it cool because you liked him. He was not offended by that, specially because he understood your niceness wasn't opportunistic. If you grabbed him strongly by the shoulders or hips, or if your thighs squeezed more around him from the back, that was a fear reaction. It was no mystery that you weren't the kind to be dating bikers, and when it came to flirting you were very shy.
Of being in a different settling, he perhaps would have tried more directly just to test the limits of your flusterred reaction. Maybe you didn't act on it because you weren't fully convinced, but he did find you very pretty. Your self deprecative jokes about being spared over being disliked and unwanted made him wonder for who had successfully convinced you of that. At very least, he got proof that he wasn't going crazy when the creep from the barn at the next stop checked on you with disgusting interest. While Clay was more than ready to jump in your defense if you would have needed him, but you handled just fine simply by being yourself. As the guy mentioned some stolen kerosene, you didn't bother hidding your role as the Watson of Clay's Sherlock in the case and straightforwardly shared the conclussion that Jason had to be the thief using it to burn evidence. Hearing a mere sample of your grim ramblings about a killer in the woods was enough to temporally kill his libido, and your partner on the road realized you had to be acting extra off putting on purpose.
You left the place sharing low, complict chuckles and he no further doubted that he enjoyed your company. The stops with longer walking ranges allowed you to have long talks, specially because you wouldn't shut up if he wouldn't make you and he rarely did. He had the vague impression of being the first person you felt comfortable with in a long time. Once you had loosen up, you couldn't be stopped, but he would be lying if he would say he didn't like it. In such desolated spot, your eyes were bright with excitement and your voice kept getting louder with every response in your talk as you walked beside him.
You were happy to have meet him, and so he was to have found you.
" I've had a long time to research about this sort of legends ... Did you know that there is a cross cultural phoenomeom? Most known case being the god Pan in Greece, origin of the word panic ... But the curious thing is that these forest creatures tend to be pranksters of an irrepresible sexuality, while Jason is a stoic punisher of everything they embody." You rambled to him once more, giving him the feeling that you hoped the observation would impress him. " In all cases exists the warning of not entering the woods at night linked to some sort of morality concern for the what the environment allows, but the watchers act in contrary senses. "
He looked at the side, weirded in an amusing way.
" Anywhere else did you read how to stop it? "
"Nothing about killing them, but I read of ways to appease them. The ancients used to do it with votive offerings. In the south american version, the suggestion is of cigarettes and alcohol, but we already know Jason is not that kind of guy. " You followed in the same tone, your voice only raising a bit in your attempt to sound convicing." It's said he drowned as a kid, so he must be a child in spirit. My guess would be trying with candy, I got some from the outpost just in case."
Clay couldn't help laughing to your simple, guilt-free confession of stealing in revenge of the terrible treatment he received.
" The police had failed me, ... I guess your magical thinking can't do worse than them."
You felt a glimpse of mock in the reply and laughed your shame away.
" It's only a theory! There are no certanities with Jason, he goes by the negative alone. Nobody knows what he likes, because he gets summoned exclusively by the things he hates."
At that point, he was invested in seeing how far you could go. The way ahead had no witnesses nearby, only more of that beautiful nature empty of humans.
" Should I be asking you for a complete list? If rage attracts him, what makes him angry? "
" Irresponsable fun: the counselors that should have been watching him let him drown for having a good time. " You simply stated, as if you wouldn't have make it quite obvious before. " Open a bottle of beer in the woods, light a joint and he will know you are disrespecting his domains. "
The excited rambling was paused for an instant as you gathered the courage to mention the delicate topic of its worthy conclussion. Something hard to adress in front of a guy you were not so subtly crushing on. The most handsome one you had ever laid eyes on, and for so making it incredibly embarassing for you.
" ... But if you really want to piss him off, to do the call that works like blood for sharks, ... there is only one thing you can do. "
For once, you had ran out of words that would clearly explain what you wanted to say. Adressing it with your liking of him painted in your expresion would have sounded like an invitation, a blatant admission of what you both already suspected.
Stopping in your tracks, you decided actions would speak bolder and more clearly than words. After turning back to follow, Clay awaited in front of you trying to guess the next occurence. He was getting closer and closer in case your evident and sudden shame would make you talk in whispers, but you rejoiced in the attention.
Parodying the shamelessness in the role of a hot lover, you grabbed him by the neck of the shirt casually laying the free hand on his chest.
" Seriously?" He wondered out loud, surprised and entertained on equal amounts. " … I judged you too sweet to be taking advantage of me."
You released him inmediately, shame emerging again to the playful mock, and he felt almost sorry to have mentioned it. Almost, if your flusterred reaction wouldn't have made him melt.
" It's the purest truth! The ones getting intimate were the first ones to go. " You admitted, excusing yourself as thoughfully as you could. " That night I got away from the camp site because I wanted to cry my frustration over being invited just to be made fun of. The jerk who started the jokes over how nobody would do it with me was there to get laid ... and his was the first body I saw."
Clay's glance turned softer with understandment, calm to the realization that the time for jokes was over. While titled your head down, initially refusing to meet his eyes again, his soft grabbing of your chin followed of a caress of his thumb guided you on the way back.
" The jerk in the gas station reminded you of that ... Didn't he? "
A silent nod confirmed it, but you spoke no further about an asshole not worthy of his time.
" it's different this time, more dangerous. I'm not the same person Jason once meet. "
A shade of concern staining your thoughts gave you a certain air of sadness, confussing Clay by lack of context to the sudden shift.
"Why? "
You smiled to ease him, hesitant to admit the truth. As if by bringing it out to the world, you were already breaking a rule you would have to pay for.
" Because there are no phranks gone wrong this time. There is a really handsome guy that I like, ... and I start to believe he likes me back."
Clay smiled back and pulled you closer, shortening the remaining distance with a sweet kiss. As his mouth guided yours and his arm rounded you against him, the primarly response of yours was shaky.
You trembled of enjoyment, of fear. A fright as irrepresible as your delight, because you believed yourself sentenced to death and you didn't mind.
no but this xenophobia is totally Woke because all argentinians are racists and white, say the european and usamerican tumblr users with fifty badges in their urls
I would personally like to wish my friends in Argentina congratulations on their win. Admittedly I was rooting for them as well because the players are cute and I like the colors.
Anyone who is so angry about a sports game it makes them racists dicks can fuck off until they grow the hell up and realize we have bigger issues at hand in their own homeland.
So sit down, shut up, and admit you smell like fish sticks because let's be so real, we already know.
Can you please write a Lord of the Rings one-shot with both angst and fluff? Where the reader is one of the Fellowship Members daughter?
If not, that's alright :)
You said please, of course I'll give it to you! Hopefully this is long enough.
I don't usually write angst, so please forgive me if it's not great because I'm confident in it. HOWEVER, platonic relationships and family is my specialty so we'll see how this goes.
No use of y/n, I call her she, her, and the girl.
You did not specify the age of the reader, so I went with teens-ish, like anywhere between 14 to 17, definitely underage. She is Boromir's daughter (for maximum angst). Readers mother is dead. Boromir's does die in this.
Featuring: Borormir, Faramir, Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, Frodo, Merry, Pippin, Aragorn, and Sam. Mentions of the horrible man who fathered Boromir and Faramir.
The legacy of a Captain
Borormir could remember the day his daughter was born very clearly. Well, not exactly. He couldn't tell you the weather was like, what had been said, what had happened other than this. He had been handed his daughter, he had met those beautiful eyes and he had decided there and then that he would be nothing like his own father. No, this little baby deserved better than this.
Denathor had been upset, but not with Boromir. With his wife. And Boromir had none of it. Especially when not three weeks later, his wife died of infection due to child birth and he refused to let his daughter be for weeks. Finally Faramir convinced his brother to let him take his niece, and take care of her so Boromir could sleep.
But this continued as she grew older. Boromir and Faramir shielded her from her grandfather's wrath and taught her how to handle herself and the sword that her uncle had custom made for her when she was twelve.
It was all this and more that prepared the girl for the quest she was now on with her father. The elves hadn't been thrilled about letting her go, but her father was there and he said it would be "good experience", so they let her go.
That is of course how they had ended up in this situation.
The mines were dark. The darkest place she had ever been, and between Aragorn and Legolas she was slowly picking her way after the rest of the fellowship. "It's alright, just grab my hand." The elf prince assured her, then pulling her up a rock face she honestly couldn't even see well enough to even try and climb it herself.
Then it started again. Walking in the dark felt like a nightmare, the only steadying force was Aragorn's hand on her shoulders, squeezing gently every time she started. The true king to Gondor reminded her of a much calmer, more understanding version of her father. Who listened to her talk and worries, and taught her the elvish language.
She nearly collapsed when they made it to the tomb, sitting on the ground, Sam stood beside her, holding her hand, keeping her up. She hadn't been sleeping well and Sam knew even though she tried to hide it because to Sam, it reminded him of the young hobbits in the Shire.
"Get up! They're coming!" She struggled to her feet, Merry grabbed her hand that Sam had let go of and pulled her after him. "Wait, Merry, I know how to..." Her words trailed off as the hobbit zig-zagged with her, dodging orcs, trailing a very confused teenager throughout the battle.
The same Hobbit yanked her out of the mine so hard he nearly dislocated her wrist after Gandalf had fallen. The same Hobbit who held her hand stubbornly all the way to the Elven kingdom where he finally let her go and she stumbled into her fathers arms, hugging him almost as tightly as he held her.
"He can't be dead...he's Gandalf...He can't be..." She began to cry and Boromir kissed his daughters head, murmuring something in an old language because he did not know what to tell her to make sure a pain fade.
After she had cleaned herself and been tended to by the Elven healers to clean the minor scrapes and bruises that had littered her skin, she curled up in the bed next to Frodo's. The hobbit was fidgeting with his buttons, seeming lost in thought. "Frodo?" Her voice snapped him from his thoughts and a faint smile came across his face. "Yes?" "You said you'd tell me more about your uncle's journey tonight."
Frodo straightened a little and pulled out his pipe. After he had prepared it and lit it, he crossed his legs and began to speak. "Let's see, where was I? Yes, my uncle loaded up all thirteen dwarves into barrels in the wine cellar..." Frodo made it all the way to Laketown but she, Merry, and Pippin, who had joined her on her bed to listen to the story, were now in a sort of Hobbit and human sleep pile, tears streaking their cheeks.
Those few days they spent to mourn, and rest, and restock were much needed. The girl spent her days with Gimli, who she didn't want to feel lonely, especially because of the feud between elves and dwarves.
She had found memories of laying on the grass watching the birds while Gimli muttered about jewels and gold and kings of old. She wasn't really listening, but it was nice to spend time with him. Gimli was one of those people that had seen so much happen that he seemed completely confident that everything would turn out fine. It was very reassuring for a teenager who was not so sure of that, even if Gimli did have a lot to complain about, he was also quite funny at times.
The way down the river she rode with Legolas and Gimli, examining Galadriels gift to her with great care. It was a beautiful old dagger. The kind given to young elves when they showed an interest in weaponry. To the elves it was simple, to a humam girl who hadn't traveled much, it was now the most beautiful thing she owned. The elven lady had kissed her forehead and told her she would see her again someday.
She was blissfully calm the whole time, of course, until her dad and Frodo disappeared and the horns of the orcs began. She knew those horns. She had grown up sending her father to face them. She had seen men go and never return. And now, there were much fewer fighters and many more orcs.
Aragorn lost sight of her as she bolted, running frantically to try and find her father. She could hear heavy footsteps. She crouched, looking around and hiding as orcs rushed past. She stayed there, hoping, praying, but then she heard the sound that made her blood run cold.
The horn of Gondor.
The loud, clearly call rang through the woods and all thoughts of staying where she was left her. Pulling the dagger she began to run, stabbing anything that got in her way that breathed. She had last heard that horn before starting from Rivendell...he had gotten in trouble for it but it had given her hope.
She tripped over a tree root and went flying, scrambling up in time to see the third arrow hit her father. Her breath seemed to freeze in her lungs as the man she knew as the strongest man she had ever known, fell to his knees. The great orc raising it's bow once more.
His grey-blue eyes met her form and sadness filled them. It was then she realized she was crying. Hot tears fell from her eyes as she stumbled forward and stabbed the creature in the shoulder. She had just yanked her dagger from its flesh when Aragorn tackled the orc away and she fell to her knees, guiding her father to lay on the ground.
"Father..." The words died in her throat when she realized he wasn't going to make it. His hand gripped the back of her head, pressing his forehead against her. "You..." He coughed. "You must stay with Aragorn. He is your king, my child. He will help us. Do not go home without him. Promise me!" The last two words were harsh in a desperate way and she nodded. "I will father, I will." He let her sit up, watching her face as he struggled to breath. "I love you, father." Her voice broke and he smiled. "Chin up, little one." Boromir pressed the thin chain with the pendant he always wore. In one side was an painting of him, and the other was his late wife. Both of her parents in one place.
Aragorn came sliding beside them and she had to turn around. Whatever her father was telling the king was half muffled by her sobs as she began to cry into her hands. She heard enough to know Merry and Pippin were gone but her heart felt like it was crumbling slowly.
She felt warm arms wrap around her and Aragorn picked hugged her tightly to him. He knew she had just become an orphan. And besides him promising Boromir he would not let the city fall, he also swore he would see to it that the daughter of the captain of Gondor would live her life as fully as she could.
With enough training her father firmly believed she could take his place as a Captain of Gondor. He had taught her almost everything he knew, after all. And most of it had been about battles.
Gimli sat beside her as she watched her fathers body when Aragorn and Legolas when to get a boat to put Boromir in. The dwarf held her hand back to the fellowships camp, because the girls eyes were so full of tears that she was stumbling over the roots below her.
She sat on the beach, watching the boat drift away. His sword to his chest, his eyes now closed. Aragorn was buckling the gauntlets her father had always worn. She was holding the locket he had pressed into her hand. "Fy nhad, fy nghapten, gwnaf i chi fod yn falch. Gorffwyswch yn dawel nes i ni gwrdd eto." She mumbles, drying her eyes and standing.
The girls heart was heavy. But many times she had seen her father carry on, no matter how devastated. No, it wasn't until they reunited with Gandalf that she truly mourned her father when she curled up on the grass and cried, thinking of everything that had happened.
Aragorn sat beside her, humming elvish lullabys go reassure her. The young woman had become extremely loyal to him in the span of a short while. He didn't know it, but he was now her only how for her home to ever be good and safe and happy again. Not that she could remember a time it was safe from constant attacks.
She rolled onto her back, looking at the sky, and somehow, despite everything, she felt like it was going to be alright. Like her father was hugging her one last time.
"Aragorn?" The man had insisted she call him that, and also that she stopped bowing, it had made him uncomfortable after the first two days of it. "Yes?"
"I miss him." She sat up, not knowing what else to say, but she needed to say it. He lowered his pipe and wrapping his arm around her, he pulled her into his side. Gandalf watched them across the fire. He to was smoking, blowing the clouds into shapes above them.
"It's alright to miss him, my dear." Gandalf said, eyes twinkling wisely at her from across the campfire. "It's a testament to what a good father he was to you."
With that, she fell asleep, tears drying on her cheeks, though no more fell with her friends watching over her, or in Gimli's case, snoring next to her.
The end?
I hope this was good, I felt a bit out of my territory, but this is the first Lord of the rings request I've had in a while so it was fun to write for.
